WALT DRINKARD dropped hook in sun-
Jess pool, lighted his pipe, and leaned
against a tree in peace. He was not often
so these days. He and Myra Branson were
engaged to be married, but they lived at
the edge of frayed emotions. Up to now
they had fought deliciously, but soon or
late the rules of civilized warfare would
be ignored. Walt’s idea of a lovely eve-
ning was a book, long silences, ideas.
Myra loved music, excitement, and noisy
people with herself as the center:
This morning he came to this place of
dusky peace to forget last night’s near-
row. But he was no more than settled be-
fore he was brought up straight by a tre-
mendous splash across the bayou from
him. Rings moved widely out, and there
were many bubbles where the girl had
sunk. Her gurgling cry rang on in his
ears: “H-h-help!” Walt did his heroics
competently by leaping in and swimming
to the spot.
The girl’s head rose above the water.
Walt caught hold of her. “Now you're
okay—you’re just fine.” He got her to the
bank and pulled her out, noting that she
was slim, had curves and softness and
good looks in spite of wet hair and muddy
clothes. “I am Walt Drinkard, and I live
at Fairfield.” He smiled.
“Pm Caroline Leigh, and I live there
too in the old Gatemont house.”
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“Ah!” Walt said. “So you're the new
girl in the old house!”
“Am 1?” she laughed. “Well, I'm aw»
fully stupid and clumsy. So I—well—"
Walt wiped the mud from her, wrung
out her hair, and helped as he might
otherwise. “I have a flivver parked at the
edge of the woods, and if you can coon
this high foetlog across the bayou, we'll
have you home in a jiffy.” He took her
hand and they crossed, followed a fisher-
man’s path to the old car in the timber
road; and they drove to Fairfield. Walt
had an odd feeling that this had hap-
pened before, somewhere, sometime.
“You're a young lawyer here in town?”
“Yes,” he said, wondering if she might
wish a high-priced divorce. He turned off
the highway when near the town limits to
avoid passing Myra Bransons house: At
the girl’s look of question Walt simply
said, “I'm euntting through.” After a deal
of scraping through tangles and tall
bushes he cdme to the Gatemont house.
It was a mystery-shrouded place, lone-
ly and romantic. A long time ago Oliver
Gatemont, a widely known planter, had
killed himself in one of the vast high-ceil-
inged rooms, and so it got about that the
house was haunted. It was big and dilapi-
dated. Those who would live here were
hardly checked by the town’s rather ex-
elusive social circle,
C@PYRIGHT 1939, EACH WEEK, INC.. 82 ST. PAUL ST., ROCHESTER, N. V.
Illustrated
by
ETHEL HAYS
with gossip, Myra would be crushed with
humiliation, and Walt might just about
be ruined. professionally.
Anyway, he was a fool. Nor was he
feeling less an idiot when Myra’s horn on
the street below called him. He went
down, got in, and Myra drove out the
glimmering pavement. “Ann Carleton is
having the bunch out tonight at the old
swimming pavilion, with hot-dogs and
toasted. marshmallows; Dick’s fetching
his portable for the dancing; the swim-
ming is grand these moonlight nights—
so I told her we'd be with them. As, 1
know — previous engagement. But 1
promised Ann.” Her voice became very
casual. “And who was our new friend, so
muddy, so possessed? Ah—so that’s your
engagement!”
“Yes,” Walt said. “She’s the new girl
in the old house. I was fishing. She fell
in—”?
EW GIR
As she walked ine
to the light of
the oil lamp, her
ivory skin made a
ghostly contrast
against the deep
black of her dresse
Caroline got out. “Thanks,” she said.
It was just Walt’s luck that Myra
Branson should come along in her car and
see a tall, wet, muddy young man take his
leave of a wet, muddy young woman. She
gave the girl one look, twinkled her
fingers graciously at Walt, without seem-
ing to observe his unconventional condi-
tion—which boded a private inquisition
later—and the car passed, leaving a glint
of corn-silver hair, a fair face, and very
blue eyes.
Caroline, not at all confused, looked af-
ter’ her. Caroline was dark . .. she was
nearly gypsy. She said, “She is very love-
ly. Now I must go. And thanks again.
You saved my life. Or did you? Won’t you
call some time soon? It would be nicer
for both of us.”
“1d love to. When?”
“This evening at 6:30? I'd mix, per-
haps, a cake with my own fairy fingers.”
HE DROVE into town along the shaded
avenue; past the withdrawn old homes of
Fairfield. The street was empty. He came
to his home, once a plantation dwelling
at the edge of town before it grew out
into the cottonlands and acquired urban
manners.
He changed clothes, groping in his
boyhood memories for something that
eluded him. It was 10:30 when he went to
his office, with the feeling of a man who
thought this was his day off. He finally
got down to work, but was interrupted by
the telephone. It was Myra. Her voice
was bright and intimate.
“Dear; I'm picking you up for luncheon
at the country club—"
“I know, darling; but I am very busy—"
“I know, sweet, but you are also hungry
and I've arranged the luncheon.”
“Ah—all right. Thanks. I'll be ready.”
He hated the country club, with its noisy
young bunch, and he knew on the way out
there would be a pretty session. He sat in
gloemy reflection.
Walt, merely male, was always baffled
by Myra. He tried to hope that after mar-
riage she would settle down and not be
like this any more. He knew better. But
Walt was fair: she was a wonderful! girl;
she was beautiful; and the Bransons were
one of the old families. She was the ad-
mitted social leader of the set in which
she and Walt moved. Their engagement
was the year’s match. If Walt, upon any
pretext, broke it, Fairfield would buzz
“Ah! So she fell in—?
“Yes, and I—well, I suppose I kind of
fished her out—rescued her—"
Myra was doubling in laughter. Walt
examined her in annoyance. “That would
be very delightful and romantic and
everything, except, so I hear; this new girl
at the old house swims like a fish!”
Walt gulped. His face got red as fire,
“In any case I’m having supper with her,
in token of appreciation or semething, so
give my respects to Ann. I'll ask Bill
Brown to pinch-hit for me tonight, dear
old Bill—”
Myra said coldly, “Don’t trouble. I'll
probably not suffer terribly for lack of
men.” And the lunch afterward was not
very successful.
WHEN WALT stooped through the brok-
en pickets of the fence, having come to
Gatemont by his boyhood secret route,
sunset made tangled patterns of the
dense shrubbery. Caroline stood in the
deep red glow of sunset. Her smile was
grave and nice. Walter went forward and
quickly took her two hands. “Se you are
Skeeter! Well, well!” He was pleased and
somehow helpless.
“I am Skeeter; and I think you should
have known me this morning.”
“I know, but you were only so high—®
He measured with his. hand. “I wasn’t
much higher.” He put his hands on her
shoulders and regarded her dimples
gravely.
“Do you remember something else?™
she finally asked.
“Yes. The last time I saw you, long
ago, I promised when I came again 1
would bring along a rose, and I'd kiss
you.” He looked around for a rose. *I
came back, all right, and I brought the
rose, but you had left Gatemont, and so I
stood here that day, feeling as empty as
the old house was.”
He took her hand. They cross-
ed the bayou on a footlog and
followed a path to the roads